Copper Beaches
by DoxieMomToTwo
Summary: This is a re-telling of The Copper Beeches by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle à la the Sherlock series on the BBC with a bit more emphasis on the Violet and Sherlock romance element than is present in the original. I would LOVE to hear what you think!
1. Chapter 1: The Interesting American

**I did not create any of these wonderful characters nor did I dream up this incredible story. Also, I'm a virgin to all this so please forgive any missteps I may make!**

_Chapter One: The Interesting American_

She reached out to grasp the brass knocker when suddenly, and with terrific force, the wooden door flew open and a passing flash of navy blue sent her reeling backwards. Her sunglasses flew off upon impact with the sidewalk, and her vintage carpetbag skidded to a stop several feet away. As she lolled in an ungainly heap on the pavement, Violet Hunter decided she didn't care what she looked like; it was in everyone's best interest that she wait until the nausea passed before she tried to move.

"Oh damn. He's sorry. So sorry, Miss. Are you all right?" said a male voice above her. "Say your sorry, Sherlock," the man continued as he placed a large cardboard box on the sidewalk and bent down to her. His shadow blocked the sun enough for Violet to tentatively open one eye, then the other. The hovering man was in his mid-to late 30s with gentle grey eyes, an easy smile, and dark blond hair that glowed like a halo in the backlight. My guardian angel, Violet thought to herself with a dazed giggle. She knew immediately that she could trust this quiet man, which very much surprised her; she did not trust in people easily, especially men. Violet was not surprised, however, to find herself knocked flat on her back by a complete stranger smack in the middle of a busy London street. Violet was endlessly amazed by the bizarre situations the universe presented her on a regular basis. Just this morning, for example, the employment agent arranging her new position had refused to answer any of her questions and then, as a confused Violet left the office, he pressed a folded slip of paper into her hand. _Talk to Sherlock Holmes_, was all it said.

"Why should I apologize?" said another voice, the richness of his deep baritone reverberated in her head like an echo. "It was clearly his fault for not expecting an opening door might yield people in a hurry. And we _are_ in a hurry, John. Taxi!"

"I think I'll live," she said. "But I could use a hand up." The man called John helped her to stand, keeping his hand firmly on her arm to steady her. She straightened her coat while he retrieved her glasses, picked up her bag, and handed them to her.

"You're a woman. Interesting."

Violet turned and blinked repeatedly in surprise. The man with the extraordinary voice and immense blue coat was exquisite. A few inches taller than she with a mass of black curls, surprising light blue eyes, and skin so pale it was practically translucent. He dismissed the taxi driver who had responded to his hail and walked back towards the house, casting a brief glance at John's hand on her arm. He carried a large cooler in one hand and an iPhone in the other, which he slid into his coat pocket. He placed the cooler on top of the box; all the while his eyes studied her intently. Somehow, she managed to form a complete sentence. "And you're the _explosion_ I have to thank for my headache," she said.

"You're American. _Very_ interesting."

Violet felt an incredible urge to touch her long hair as a diversion, but it had recently been cut short so she settled for crossing her arms. It had the intended effect; Violet mustered her strength and broke free from his penetrating gaze. Rather flippantly, she asked the man still holding tight to her arm if everyone in London was as annoyingly perceptive as his friend. "Sherlock is an acquired taste," he said quickly. "I'm John. John Watson. Will you come inside and sit down for a minute, Ms….?"

"Hunter. Violet Hunter. And I'm actually here to see Mr. Holmes," she said. "I took a chance in coming – but if you're going out…"

"Why?" demanded Sherlock fiercely.

"I'm sorry?" she replied, taking the risk to face him again. Her mouth went completely dry as his eyes drilled into her. If Violet had just discovered a guardian angel then this man was most definitely a devil.

"It's a very simple question – one that I would hope a highly-educated, reasonably well-off 35-year-old woman from New England could answer without much hesitation," he leaned even closer and practically whispered in her ear. "Why. Are. You. Here?"

She felt his warm breath on her neck, her eyes closed and she inhaled deeply. Sherlock Holmes smelled of soap and mint with the faintest trace of cigarette smoke and… was that _bow rosin_? She moved ever so slightly and for an instant his cheek touched hers. Sherlock's sharp intake of breath danced over her skin like a caress; simultaneously they shuddered. Mercifully for both of them, John's free arm went around Violet's shoulders and he pulled her away.

"Sherlock – enough. Call Lestrade and tell him he'll need to come pick up his… parts," said John, indicating the cooler. "Come inside, Ms. Hunter. I'll try to make up for Sherlock's lack of social graces and you can tell us why you've come."

"Parts?!" she sputtered as John adeptly led her into the house. "Parts of _what_ exactly?"

Sherlock watched them go inside, his eyes keenly following the female whose close proximity had made him tremble like a child. He had gone a very long while neither needing nor wanting any attention from the opposite sex and here was the second woman inside of a year who had stopped him cold.

"Ridiculous," he said aloud and bounded inside.

The door to 221B Baker Street had no sooner slammed shut than it tore open again as Sherlock and John frantically ran out to retrieve their forgotten packages.


	2. Chapter 2: The Musically Inclined

_Chapter Two: The Musically Inclined_

"So what brings you to London, Ms. Hunter?" John had made tea and was setting it out for them when Sherlock returned from calling Lestrade. He had removed his coat, revealing a fitted dress shirt in dark purple. He went to the armchair directly across from where she was sitting beside the fireplace but before he sat, he picked up the violin and bow he had laid there earlier.

She thought she smelled rosin on him earlier and as she watched his hands idly touch the strings, she was not surprised he was a musician. His long fingers were unquestionably powerful but they could almost be described as delicate and as he gently stroked the well-loved violin, Violet felt her heart skip a beat. "Do you play, Mr. Holmes?" Violet asked as he placed the instrument carefully on his lap.

"When I need to think. I find clarity in music," Sherlock replied. He did not look at her, rather he sat staring ahead, his chin resting on the fingertips of his hands clasped together as if in prayer. Silently he cursed himself for allowing a woman to affect him so profoundly. He was dangerously close to losing control, which was not something Sherlock was prepared to accept. Focus, focus, he demanded.

"Plus it's hard for me to talk over the damn thing," said John, offering her cup as he pulled a chair next to Sherlock. "You know, I'm surprised you weren't impressed by his little show of detective skill out front."

"Well, I am kind of obvious," she replied with a gentle laugh. "I've been abroad a few times and I truly believe there's an American flag above my head that only Europeans can see."

"But the other things – your education, age…" John continued with a gesture towards his enigmatic friend. "Most people are taken aback by Sherlock's unusual way of introducing himself. And by taken aback I mean they usually want to slap his face." Violet laughed. "Oh - I'm not kidding. I bet Mother Teresa would have decked him but good." Violet laughed even harder. Sherlock closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him. Her laugh was intrusive; it broke through his resolve and went straight to his head. He was losing the battle against emotion and he did not like it at all.

"Most of it was correct," she said holding up her left hand showing the signet ring on her index finger. "Harvard class ring – PhD – quite distinctive; I grew up just outside of Philadelphia but I imagine years up north have taken their toll on my accent. But… I'm actually 36, I took a year off before finishing my thesis, and I am in no way 'well-off.' I received a small scholarship but student loans are killing me, which is the answer to your original question, Dr. Watson. I'm in the UK to teach a 6-year-old to play the piano."

"Please – it's John. Dr. Watson makes me feel like I should take your temperature," he said and they both laughed, completely oblivious to Sherlock's inner torment. Suddenly he decided John's inane attempt at conversation had gone on long enough.

"Your doctorate is in music?" The force of Sherlock's question startled Violet almost as much as the intensity of his eyes as they unrelentingly focused on her face. She felt as if he was taking an inventory of her features, noting each aspect for future recall.

"Theory, actually," she clarified. "Performing isn't really my thing; I prefer to play in private. However, I do love teaching and this position seemed like a terrific opportunity until it started to get, well, creepy."

"Explain," said Sherlock. He didn't move a muscle but somehow she felt him tense up. Violet took a drink of her tea as John leaned forward slightly to touch her shoulder. "Take your time," he said. She took a deep breath and began.

"A professor I'd kept in touch with called and asked if I'd be interested in teaching piano to a self-described prodigy in England. Apparently the family had exhausted the local talent and called Harvard hoping they knew someone who fit their rather peculiar list of qualifications."

"Peculiar? How?" demanded Sherlock.

"Well, they were only interested in a woman, no older than 40; and she had to be blond, tall, and thin. She had to be single and not need to return to the States for at least 6 months. He said the family was wiling to pay - I think the words he used were 'a boatload of money' – if they could find the right person."

Violet placed her cup on the table; she was afraid her hands might start to shake and betray just how anxious she actually was.

"Of course I was skeptical from the get go. I mean, seriously, who orders a piano teacher by **hair color**?" she asked rhetorically and continued. "They'd never heard me play and had no idea about my teaching style but, based on a recommendation and a photo they were willing to offer me $100,000 _up front_ if I'd agree to spend the next 6 months at their estate in Hampshire with their miniature van Cliburn."

"A hundred thousand American dollars? That's like … well, that's quite a lot in pounds," exclaimed John, as he leaned forward, his mouth agape.

"Roughly 64,345 based on today's exchange," inserted Sherlock. "And yet, despite all of your concerns, you took the position." The disdain in his comment hit her unexpectedly hard. Violet got up from the chair and stood by the fire gathering her courage. She watched the embers burn for a moment before continuing.

"I thought long and hard about it, Mr. Holmes. I decided I just couldn't pass it up," she said to him directly. "That kind of money is life changing. It would make it possible for me to pay off my loans **and** do something I've been wanting to do for a very long time – go in with some friends and open a music school for inner city kids." Sherlock sat back in the armchair and rested his chin on his fingers again. Violet took that to mean he approved of her explanation. "I'm not as naïve as I look. I had a lawyer friend review the contact and I researched the family – The honorable Mr. and Mrs. Jephro Rucastle and son Edward…"

"Rucastle? The shipping magnate?" asked John. Violet nodded.

"They're well-known so I didn't think I'd disappear into the basement without at least one person questioning where the piano teacher went," she said with a wry smile. "But – today… what started as a mildly strange trip crossed well into the Twilight Zone and I'm afraid Rod Serling isn't going to show up any time soon." She returned to her chair but sat on the edge as if she was about to share a secret.

"I'm staying at the Four Seasons and I received a message this morning from the employment agency informing me that before our meeting, and as a gift from the family, a stylist named Francisco was waiting for me in the spa. I thought, OK. I have some time to kill today, so why not? Everything was going swell until Francisco – for some freaking bizarre reason - ties my hair into a ponytail and cuts it off. All of it! Gone! Now, you may not have deduced that I watch a fair amount of ice hockey and can hold my own with Bruins fans but I redefined 'ugly American' for everyone at the Four Seasons spa today. He did what he could to fix it but I'm afraid it will be a while before I stop wishing him bodily harm."

"You're reaching for it," said Sherlock softly.

"Nervous habit. I'll probably need to take up smoking or something until it grows back," she joked and folded her hands in her lap. "I was ready to give the employment agent an earful about the fantastic 'gift' when he about fell over himself to apologize for what happened and said that to make amends, the family was increasing my salary to $150,000!"

"Because of a haircut?" asked John as he looked over to Sherlock who continued to sit motionless taking in every word. "That doesn't make any sense."

"I know, right? He refused to answer any questions; just said a car would be coming for me tomorrow afternoon to take me up to Hampshire. And then, as he _physically_ ushered me out, he slipped me this…." Violet handed John the folded note.

"_Talk to Sherlock Holmes_," he read aloud.

"Yes. So hear I am… talking to Sherlock Holmes."

Unexpectedly Sherlock stood up, placed the violin under his chin and began to play. He passed between John and Violet and walked over to the window; the music was thoughtful and tranquil. As abruptly as he started, Sherlock stopped playing and glared out the window.

"Chopin again?" asked John. "He's been trying to get this one piece for ages."

"Nocturne in E flat Major - not for the faint of heart. You are quite accomplished, Mr. Holmes," said Violet.

"Sherlock," he said without turning away from the window.

"All right… Sherlock," she paused, weighing whether or not she should ask the very personal question that was nagging at her. "Do you enjoy playing?"

"I play to think, not to 'enjoy.' Why do you ask? Was it not good? You said I was 'quite accomplished.' "

"And you are," she asserted. "You have amazing precision, Sherlock. Your form, your technique – flawless. You should play Bach or Mozart; the mathematical Baroques would lie down for you." She walked over to his music stand and touched the pages as if they contained treasured memories.

"But the Romantics…" she shook her head and faced him. "The Romantics set raw emotions on paper – expression over form, as it's explained. You have to _stop_ thinking and play from here alone," she said touching her hand to her heart. "Chopin gave his life, his soul, to a woman he knew he could never have. His music tells a story of tenderness, and hunger, and complete desolation. These pieces are the love letters he couldn't find the words to write. Without that level of passion, the result is … well, it's cold."

"I am not cold, damn it. Why does everyone say that?" Sherlock flounced into the chair like a disappointed child.

"Probably because you're a proper bastard to most people." Sherlock shot him a look. "Oh come on. You told my last girlfriend she should consider breast implants because it would draw attention away from her face!"

"May I?" asked, Violet, indicating the violin in Sherlock's hands.

"Of course," he said and handed the instrument and bow to her. She placed the violin under her chin and played a quick scale. She adjusted a few of the pegs, played the scale again, and, satisfied at the tuning, glanced at the music on the stand. Then she walked over to John and asked him to stand. Violet looked him square in the eyes, tapped the bow against the inside of her left foot twice, and began to play.

The music was soft and sensual and it enveloped John like a warm mist. She seized him with her eyes – blue-green with mesmerizing flecks of gold - and the way she seemed to caress the strings into producing the most beautiful sound intoxicated him. Violet finished the passage and lowered the violin to her side, bowing her head slightly to break the spell she had cast. John grasped at the table's edge and cleared his throat.

"Ok. Wow. That was… Seriously. Wow," he said.

"It was pretty wow for me, too," she said with a wink. "Thank you, John. I don't often get to share music so… intimately."

"Leave," said Sherlock from just behind her right ear. She thought he must have moved behind her while she was playing, not that either of them would have noticed. And Sherlock doubted John would have noticed a bomb exploding in the kitchen.

"Not you," he said to Violet. "John. Leave. Now."

"Yeah, I think I need a cigarette anyway," he said as he moved slowly to the door.

"You don't smoke."

"Only after sex…" he said as he closed the door behind him. The moment the knob clicked, Sherlock took Violet by the shoulders and spun her around to face him. He continued to hold her as he spoke softly but distinctly.

"I consider myself an exceptional violinist; second to very few, but what you just did there… with John. Tell me how you did it." Violet smiled and his resolve liquefied in an instant. At that exact moment Sherlock decided to stop fighting whatever was happening to him.

"I can't 'tell' you but I can try to show you. That is, if you're willing to see and not just observe," she offered. Sherlock dropped his arms and stepped back in reply.

"When I played for Dr. Watson, I let the music tell him I wanted him in the most intimate way possible. I took hold of him using the basest of desires – lust. I admit it was easy to draw him in; I think he's a bit lonely," she tossed out a few measures as she walked to the music stand and turned to look at Sherlock. "But – you. You're not lonely, are you, Sherlock? Oh, you're alone. Sometimes painfully so, but even though it hurts you don't seek comfort in the arms of a woman. Not because you can't – let's face it, you're kind of hot…" Sherlock rolled his eyes and scowled. "No, you can't find relief in a woman because you refuse to let yourself be so defenseless, so exposed. You just can't take that risk."

"I have absolutely no problem taking risks. Life would be too monotonous to bear without mortality," he countered.

"I'm not talking about physical risks, Sherlock, and you know it. Death is much easier to take than rejection; any teenager could tell you that," she fired back. The strength in her voice was backed by her clearly superior knowledge on the subject. Sherlock knew he was out of his depth and it frightened him just enough to make him want to understand this vibrant, talented, and quite brilliant woman.

"The nocturne – music for the night, Sherlock. Remember that. Now - give me the first 8 measures; just the first passage. Look at me while you play – but don't just 'see' me here in front of you. Feel me here; feel me with you. Let Chopin tell me what you want," she said as she handed him the violin. "Can you do it, Sherlock? Can you make a woman feel desired without saying a word?"

His light-blue eyes met hers as he accepted her challenge. If anything, Sherlock was ready for any good experiment. He settled the violin under his chin and began to play. Halfway through the passage, Violet gently placed her hand flat on his chest directly over his heart. Through the thin cotton shirt she felt his heart skip a beat before quickening to a frenetic pace. The heat of her palm seemed to pass right through the fabric; it was as if she were touching his bare skin. He continued to play as best he could but the apparent union of their desire for each other took Sherlock quite by surprise. His eyes filled with tears as the warmth of what could only be explained as affection spread throughout his entire body.

He played the final notes and drew the bow down to his side. For a time they simply stood in the drawing room, not thinking or talking; just enjoying being connected to each other in this intimate manner. Violet was about to move away when she felt his hand move to cover hers completely his fingertips gently stroked hers. Violet wanted to say something – anything - but no words would form. Sherlock was having an equally hard time finding words that would adequately express what he was feeling. This was all so new to him – amazing, exhilarating, and exciting – but new, nonetheless.

He placed the violin and bow on the chair and leaned closer. His eyes never left hers as he pressed her hand firmly to his chest and reached up to caress her cheek with his other hand. Violet willingly nestled her face against his touch, so gentle and honest.

"Assuming it's safe now that the lesson is oh…ver…. Yeah, maybe you need another minute," said John opening and quickly closing the door.

"Thank you," said Sherlock quietly. Impulsively, he lightly kissed her forehead; his lips lingering against her flushed skin.

"And thank you," she replied in a whisper. Neither of them wanted to move out of the embrace but they knew there was work to be done.

"John!" called Sherlock reluctantly.


	3. Chapter 3: The Dance Begins

**Hello! Many, many thanks to my reviewer Edhla – I was thinking the same thing about the kiss but I decided to do it anyway because:**

**1/ I just re-watched the first series and Sherlock touches/kisses/hugs on Mrs. Hudson so much I was starting to get creeped out.**

**2/ ACD wrote the Sherlock/Violet attraction into the original I'm bound to follow, but our modern-day SH is hardly the type to fall for a pretty face. Therefore I had to find something they connected on besides sex, which belongs to Irene Adler.**

**3/ I don't believe he is The Virgin everyone wants to think he is, nor do I think he's gay. I think he values relationships when he finds people he considers worthy of his time – male, female, alien, vegetable – doesn't matter as long as the brain is there.**

* * *

_Chapter 3: The Dance Begins_

**Doc W**: Hello Violet! Just making sure texts get through to you way up north!

**V:** LOL! Taxi pulling up to the place now.

**V**: Wow. Look up "haunted house" in the dictionary and I bet there's a photo of this place. Frankenstein and the Mrs. may greet me at the door.

**Doc W:** That's actually a celebrated period of English architecture – Early Horror.

**V**: Wonderful. Is it too late to change my mind?

* * *

**DOC W:** Settled?

**V:** As I can be. These people seriously put the fun in dysfunctional.

**DOC W**: LOL! We are only a few hours away, remember.

**V:** He doesn't leave the house for less than a 7, remember.

**DOC W:** For you he would.

**DOC W:** BTW, he hasn't stopped playing that damn violin since you left. I'm about ready to smash it against the nearest wall.

**V:** Music is good for the soul.

**DOC W**: So is therapeutic demolition.

**DOC W:** Seriously though, I think you hit him where no woman has before. In the violin.

**V:** Very funny, Doc. He just needs a case.

**DOC W:** We have work… he'd just prefer the crimes to be, well, more appalling.

**V:** Only Sherlock would complain about a murder being too vanilla…

* * *

**SH:** John tells me you arrived without incident.

**V:** Yes. Sorry - I didn't want to bother you.

**SH:** ?

**V:** Texting. I know you're busy.

**SH:** As it happens, I don't have a case right now.

**SH:** Well, not an interesting one.

**SH**: Before I die of boredom, tell me what you see – describe it.

**V**: I could send a photo….

**SH**: Boring.

**V**: Ok. Jeez.

**V:** Welcome to the Rucastle Family Ballroom. It's massive - you could park an 18-wheeler in here and still have room to do the Macarena.

**V:** Not much furniture - just a few sofas and a concert grand by one of the windows. Marble floor, high ceilings – all the charm of a mortuary but fantastic acoustics!

**V:** There's a piano in practically every room in this place, but this is my favorite - Steinway Model D. An outstanding instrument. I play here for a few hours in the morning while Prince Eddie's at school. No one likes this room and I am fairly certain the reason is the life-size painting of the 1st Mrs. Rucastle (deceased) holding estranged daughter Alice.

**V:** Going by the date on the painting, I'd say the reason our dear Alice ran off had something to do with having a step-mother her own age. No one seems to have any idea what she's doing in the US – and no one seems to really care either. It's like she's been excommunicated.

**V:** This really is a beautiful old house – it could be quite something if the people living in it weren't so creepy. And it's funny that it's smack up against the road. The grounds go on forever in the back, but I can literally see the street from this window. Not that there's ever anyone out there to see – I imagine the dogs roaming at night keep the neighbors from getting too nosy….. OK. How's that?

**SH:** It will do for now.

**V:** Anyone ever mention what a ray of sunshine you are?

**SH**: No.

**V:** I'm not surprised…

* * *

**SH:** Thanksgiving turkey and stuffing? (That sounds appalling, actually.)

**V:** Yeah – I'm not a fan of it myself. Seriously though, every dinner here reminds me of Thanksgiving with my family – draining, uncomfortable, and tedious. They'd 3 it here.

**SH**: Less than 3?

**V:** It's a heart, Sherlock. It means love.

**SH:** That's absurd.

**V:** So is love. ;)

**V:** That's a wink, just in case you were wondering.

**SH:** I understand the notion of the "smiley" however I decline to misuse punctuation to make a point.

**V:** :D :p O:-)

**SH:** Stop

**V:** :'(

* * *

**DOC W: **How are the lessons going? Ready for the Royal Albert?

**V: **LOL!He's good, but he's not the next Briton who's got talent. Although the way Papa R. carries on after our nightly concerts you'd think the kid was turning out concertos instead of minuets.

**DOC W: **He plays for them every night? And he's 6?

**V: **Oh yes! We both play after dinner. Andit'sblack tie, no less.

**DOC W: **You, too?

**V:** I tried getting out of it, citing my limited wardrobe but – imagine my luck! – the runaway daughter left at least a hundred gowns here. The best part - all of them are this simply marvelous electric blue color.

**V:** Every. Single. One.

**DOC W: **Oh.

**V:** My closet is a Smurf's paradise.

**DOC W: **Sorry.

**V:** Not sorrier than I am…

* * *

**SH:** Are you awake?

**V:** Yes. Are you?

**SH**: Oh – that's humor, yes?

**V:** Apparently a very sad attempt at it. What's on your mind?

**SH:** Bored. John is out. Mrs. Hudson is asleep. They won't give me back my skull…

**V:** OK. Let's try a little quid pro quo, Mr. Holmes.

**SH:** ?

**V:** I satisfied your need for information. Now it's your turn.

**SH:** Fine. Should I describe the drawing room to you?

**V**: Nope. Been there, seen that. I want to know what you're feeling.

**SH**: What I'm… feeling?

**V: **I know you have emotions, Sherlock. Don't deny it. Not to me.

**V:** I want to know what you're feeling right now, texting me at midnight…

**SH:** The lateness has absolutely nothing to do with why I'm texting you. I do my best work when everyone's asleep besides I told you I was bored. But since I doubt you will give up on this any time soon, I will do my best to answer.

**V:** My signal is crap here but if you'd rather talk….

**SH:** No. I can choose my words more carefully this way.

**SH: **Recently I experienced emotions that had always been enigmatic to me. Fear. Sadness. Friendship. And, quite surprisingly, even love.

**V:** Love with – and please forgive the question but I would feel safer knowing – a woman?

**SH**: Why does everyone think I'm gay?

**V:** It could be the hat. Just sayin'….

**SH:** That damn hat. I'm going to burn it.

**SH:** Yes, Violet, a woman. She was as exasperating and infuriating as any I have ever met but, for the first time in my adult life I pursued the carnal understanding of a member of the opposite sex. Subsequently, we had a very brief yet successful liaison in the Middle East.

**V:** Well, that's a very sterile description of a love affair but I'm going to assume you enjoyed it. So - are you missing her tonight?

**SH:** One does not miss Irene Adler. One worries when and where she will reappear; however, I fully expect that was the last time I will see her.

**SH:** And no, it does not bother me. I neither regret my time with the woman nor do I desire to repeat it.

**SH:** So if you must know what I'm "feeling" I can best describe it as reflective. I am examining the events of your appearance last week in attempt to grasp why continued interaction with you is obligatory rather than compulsory. You should be merely another client and yet if I don't receive any communications from you, I become… apprehensive.

**SH:** In addition, I have revisited playing for you many times and I can find no logical explanation for why your proximity affected me so significantly.

**SH:** Since I cannot employ rational thought to satisfactorily resolve this, I now find myself contemplating the possibility that I may need to pursue an amorous relationship with you.

**V:** Sherlock, are you saying you want to date me?

**SH:** I am saying that I am considering if pursing a romantic relationship would be an appropriate course.

**V:** Yes, of course. How silly of me.

**SH: **I should have the results of my analysis soon.

**V:** I look forward to receiving your report. I think….

**V:** Thank you, Sherlock.

**SH:** For?

**V:** Even though I'm not 100% sure I understand what you said to me tonight, I do appreciate being "let in." I know it's not something you do easily, or very often.

**SH:** You are welcome. Now go to bed. It's very late.

**V: **I will. Good night, Sherlock.

**SH: **Good night. Sleep well.

**SH:** And Violet –

**SH:** You were already "in."

* * *

**DOC W: **OK – what did you do to him?

**V: **Sorry? Who? Where?

**DOC W: **Sherlock is humming. HUMMING! Sherlock Holmes does NOT hum.

**V:** LOL! Well, we did have a rather interesting chat last night.

**DOC W:** Do tell!

**V:** Well, it's Sherlock so either he was testing a theory about the effect of texting until 2am on one's ability to get out of bed the next morning, or….

**DOC W:** ?

**V: **Or he's exploring his romantic side. It's a toss up, really.

**DOC W: **A romantic side to Sherlock? OUR Sherlock?

**V:** You're shocked! Imagine how I felt! I didn't get any sleep afterwards – he's unlike any man I've ever met and I'm not totally sure that's a good thing.

**DOC W:** He is one of a kind, that's for sure. And if he hurts you, I'll kill him.

* * *

**V**: You know, I totally see why they had to import me – this kid is weird with a capital W. He just went out the backdoor carrying a riding crop and a rabbit trap.

**DOC W:** Riding crop? He sounds like a pint-sized Sherlock….

**V:** LOL! Only if Sherlock has a taste for vivisection. And he just might so I need to just shut up now.

**DOC W**: Never known him to want to cut up anything alive – it's the dead he likes to bring home to the lab, AKA our kitchen.

**V:** Nasty! I drank tea from that kitchen!

**DOC W:** I ask him to pick up eggs and he comes home with a severed head.

**V:** Good lord! Where does he shop?

**DOC W**: The morgue is his own personal Tesco.

**V:** I would say he needs a hobby that doesn't involve the dead but somehow I don't see him doing Zumba. Do you?

**DOC W:** Sherlock in spandex!

**V:** Yeah – good luck getting that vision out of your head anytime soon.

**DOC W:** ROFLMAO!

**DOC W:** I'm dying here and he's seriously furious!

* * *

**SH**: What is going on?

**V:** Sorry - just telling John about my student. He's not your average kid.

**SH:** In what way?

**V:** He likes to catch mice…

**SH**: A bit odd but not...

**V:** He catches them so he can skin them – told me he's making his mother a coat. That a British thing, maybe?

**SH:** No.

**V:** Well, there goes that theory…

**V:** I'm not surprised the kid is screwed up – they're not exactly one big happy family. Former Teen Mom has not smiled once in the almost 2 weeks that I've been here.

**V:** And have I told you about the Tollers?

**SH:** No.

**V:** Mrs. T is the housekeeper and cook – she has all the charm of a prison guard. Mr. T (and no, he does not get the 80s tv reference) is the groundskeeper. I've never seen him sober, although if I were married to her I'd sure as hell drink, too.

**SH: **Make sure you have your phone with you at all times. You must tell me immediately if you find yourself endangered.

**V:** Oh trust me – I will absolutely let you know. I'd rather not end up the subject of one of those Unsolved Mystery shows. Not that you couldn't solve it.

**V: **I imagine you are rather annoying to watch television with – always knowing "who done it" before the opening credits are through.

**SH:** You are well aware what it's like to have an eidetic memory. And before you ask, you tapped my bow twice on your left instep. I access my Mind Palace differently but the concept is the same.

**V:** Your Mind Palace? Must be a British thing…

**SH:** How do you initiate recall for the piano?

**V: **I ask a very handsome gentleman to kiss me.

**SH**: I am serious.

**V:** So am I. Fortunately my father attended all my performances.

**V:** But yes, I understand what it's like to be endlessly thinking, seeing, remembering. Sometimes I want it to stop so desperately – to just be quiet for one day. One hour even.

**SH:** At one time I was willing to try anything – legal or not. The experiment was not successful.

**V:** Thanks for the warning. Good thing I turned to music.

**SH:** Yes. Music. Danse Macabre - Saint-Saëns. Do you know it?

**V:** Not well.

**SH**: I'm sending you the music.

**V**: OK. Why?

**SH:** Duet. Piano and violin.

**V:** Sherlock Holmes! Are you asking me to play with you?

**SH**: I am.

**V: **All right,I'm game. I've never played a duet over the phone before!

**SH: **Not over the phone**. **I expect you'll be back in London once your tenure there is over?

**V: **I don't really have any plans yet. My return ticket is open ended and honestly, I haven't really thought about it.

**SH: **Think about it.

**SH: **Please.

* * *

**V:** I'm sending this to both of you because… well, just take a look at the photo I'm attaching.

* * *

Sherlock's phone lit up with a soft chime; John's phone vibrated loudly in his pants pocket.

* * *

**V:** Now, I cannot swear that's MY hair in the drawer but…

* * *

"John!" called Sherlock from the kitchen as he poured the cup of tea he had just made into the sink.

"Booking the train now!" called John back from the drawing room tapping briskly on his laptop. "It leaves in 90 minutes - I just need to throw some things in a bag."

"I'll call a taxi. I packed the night she left the flat; I just need to find my tuxedo…. Mrs. Husdon!"


	4. Chapter 4: The Unexpected Trip

**As always, thank you for the reviews! :)**

* * *

_Chapter 4: The Unexpected Trip_

"How is Violet going to explain us to the Rucastles?" asked John as they settled into their seats on the train. "I mean, two men packing formal wear just happen to be touring the English countryside… Oh no. No, no, no."

"Sorry?" asked Sherlock as reached into John's case and extracted his laptop. John snatched his machine back and looked around to make sure no one was listening.

"Tell me we are not _Dr. and Mr. Watson_ searching for the perfect antique doorknocker because I swear to you, Sherlock, I will French kiss Violet the minute we walk through the door," he contended, his voice low but insistent.

"Relax, John. There will be no need to defend your heterosexuality," said Sherlock as he deftly reclaimed the computer and attempted to power it up. "Although I must say that I am surprised you own a tuxedo. It's not exactly standard military issue."

"I don't own a tuxedo; I brought my dress uniform. You don't strike me as the black-tie type either – why is it you own one?" inquired John while pulling the computer's power cord out of his bag. He held it up for Sherlock to see and dangled it temptingly.

"For emergencies, of course," explained Sherlock reaching for the cord, which John quickly placed behind his back and leaned, albeit uncomfortably, against the seat back.

"Of course," John replied. "Most people keep extra batteries on hand for an emergency; you have a tuxedo."

Accepting defeat with a childish grumble, Sherlock picked up his phone and scrolled through the recent messages searching for one conversation in particular.

**SH:** I am well aware that Molly desires a relationship beyond what I am capable of providing.

**V:** Capable? Or willing?

**SH: **I should dispute that. But I cannot.

**SH: **I also cannot comprehend why she would want anything from me. I have scarcely shown her any kindness over the years.

**V: **I told you – you're kind of hot.

**SH: **…

**V: **Well, "You are very attractive" doesn't really cover it.

**V:** Plus, it's more than a pretty face that makes you desirable. If you look at Molly the way you looked at me, you could tell her to go to Hell and she'd start packing.

**SH: **That's complete rubbish.

**V:** A quote from wordsmith e.e. cummings sums it up nicely: …_the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses_.

**V:** And you're kind of hot. ;)

**SH:** And you are incorrigible.

Of course he had immediately looked up the poem she quoted and its significance haunted him. _Your slightest look easily will unclose me though I have closed myself._ He had most certainly closed himself – alone is safe, he always said. Now that there were people in his life whom he considered important – John, Mrs. Hudson, even Lestrade – he couldn't deny a new sense of purpose directly correlated to the reactions of others. He still lived for his work, nothing would change that, but now the pleasure he derived from the work was tantamount to the level of satisfaction he produced for the people who mattered most.

That development was clear to him before he met Violet, indeed before his liaison with Irene, and now that he understood the power of physical intimacy he found himself craving it. A few months ago, the fact that her slightest look unclosed him would have been viewed as disadvantageous; a response to be avoided in order to retain absolute control. Everything was different now - every day a deeper understanding of the human condition and he was enjoying the process of discovery immensely.

"So, have you talked to Violet? Today, that is," John asked, interrupting Sherlock's reverie.

"Yes, John. I have." said Sherlock, putting aside the phone and opening his newspaper, which he hope would hide the smile he couldn't inhibit. "We are friends stopping by to see how she's getting on."

"Friends?"

"Yes," he turned a page.

"JUST friends?"

"John, what exactly are you getting at?" asked Sherlock pointedly, moving the newspaper to the side to stare intently at his friend.

"I'm wondering if you're going to admit you're more than just friends with her," answered John. He could tell Sherlock was not thrilled with the topic of their conversation but he was not ready to drop it.

"I have no idea what you mean – Violet is a client." Sherlock snapped the paper and tried to concentrate on the words in front of him but they refused to sit still. Just like his heart rate whenever he thought about her. I have been far too obvious, he thought and gripped the paper tightly.

"Sherlock, you know exactly what I'm talking about. You have been acting like a hormonal teenager since you first set eyes on her," John laughed.

"I have not," Sherlock replied and turned another page to continue the pretense. Although he was beginning to acknowledge an emotional response to women, it was not something he wanted to discuss with anyone yet. Not even John.

"Sherlock, I can tell every time you get a text from her. No one looks at his crotch and smiles that much. Not even someone as enamored with himself as you are," John pointed out. "Plus, you don't usually move this quickly unless there's a severed body part up for grabs."

"I was bored," offered Sherlock.

"We have a word for that in the military, you know. We call it _bullshit_," admonished John. "Sherlock, she's dead gorgeous, smart, incredibly talented… most men would kill for the chance to even **talk** to her. I know you're not 'most men' but, for me as the man most likely to be labeled your gay lover, would you please just admit you find her attractive?"

"As I have said before, John, I am married to my work," Sherlock explained. "If there are disparities in my relationship with Violet they are purely for research purposes."

"Uh huh. Just keep in mind that Violet may not know there's a difference between _high-functioning sociopath_ and _complete ass,_ OK?" he warned. "Don't hurt her, Sherlock." For his troubles, John received that special 'Do shut up now' look he had come to know. If Sherlock didn't want to you to know something, you weren't going to badger it out of him. Giving up saved so much time.

The remainder of the journey passed uneventfully – John worked on his blog and Sherlock pointed out noteworthy places in the countryside where one might hide a body. The travelers arrived at the Rucastle Estate courtesy of the car and driver Violet had sent to retrieve them. Unable to contain her excitement, Violet literally ran down to the kitchen when John texted her they were pulling up to the house.

"Mr. and Mrs. Toller – these are the friends I mentioned," she explained as they came through the back door. "This is Sherlock…" Sherlock smiled at the housekeeper and her husband far too broadly and inelegantly waved his violin case at her. Unsure if he was drunk or just playing around, Violet continued. "Sherlock plays the violin. Obviously. And… and this is John."

"Uh huh. And what does he play then?" questioned Mr. Toller from his place at the big wooden table, the drink in his hand splashed with a broad gesture towards the unsuspecting doctor.

"John? He plays the… uh…" Violet stuttered, unprepared for the question, but before she had time to come up with an answer, Sherlock interrupted her.

"Harp," he supplied, throwing his arm around John and pulling him close, grinning from ear-to-ear. Violet could only stare, her mouth agape.

John was equally as flabbergasted. "Yes, the uh – harp… My mother really wanted a girl so…." he managed to say. Sherlock continued to grin like a fool until John elbowed him in the ribs. Hard.

Violet laughed nervously and stepped in front of her two screwy friends. "Yes, well. Sooooo – guys. I'm sure you'd like to rest up before dinner…. Uh, Mrs. Toller?" she said, hoping the old woman would catch on. Thankfully she did and motioned for them to follow.

"Come with me you lot. And don't be thinking you're sharing a room. I'll have none a that in his house," she wagged a crooked finger at John.

"OK but seriously though, we are NOT a couple," he insisted as they gathered their luggage. Mrs. Toller gave him and Sherlock the once-over and grunted her reply as she left the kitchen. "I happen to LIKE women. I like them a LOT!" he called after her.

"I'm so glad you got here before the dogs are let out," Violet said as they mounted the back stairs. "They took down a deer the other day; it wasn't pretty."

"Dogs don't usually attack deer, do they?" asked John.

"My husbands dogs do," warned Mrs. Toller. "And you'd be smart to stay inside at night. There'll be no saving your sorry selves if the dogs find you." Behind the old woman's back, Violet made a face at John; he hid his amusement in a well-timed cough.

Mrs. Toller opened a bedroom door and pointed at Sherlock. "You in here," she barked. "You over here." Mrs. Toller entered the room; Violet leaned in to John.

"Hey - what's with Sherlock?" she whispered to John. "Is he drunk or something?"

"How I wish it were that simple. I can never really tell what he's playing at right off. Maybe he wanted them to think he's just a regular guy," he explained quietly and shrugged his shoulders.

As soon as Mrs. Toller left them alone, Violet audibly breathed a sigh of relief. "I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you," she said throwing her arms around John just as Sherlock entered the room. Much to the amazement of both gentlemen, she kissed him on the lips, and touched her forehead to his. "Thank you so much, Doc."

"There's something very wrong here, Violet. You shouldn't be alone," he replied almost shyly as he hesitantly broke the embrace.

"As if you could keep us away," affirmed Sherlock. "A damsel held a virtual captive in an isolated estate guarded by a pack of angry dogs was tantalizing enough, but with your new evidence it became positively irresistible." She turned to him, her light green eyes sparkling. His breath caught when she moved within inches of his face. John was right, he thought, she is particularly attractive.

"You brought your violin, Mr. Holmes," she said lightly touching the strong fingers gripping the instrument's case.

His free hand skimmed her shoulders and wove through her hair as he pulled her just against his chest. Violet closed her eyes and inhaled deeply the scent that was uniquely him. She had wondered if the attraction she'd experienced when they first met was a one-time occurrence; the product of an overactive imagination distorted by her unease about the position she had taken perhaps. Judging by the fact that her knees were about to give out, however, she was pretty sure now that it was not a fluke. Collecting her strength, she looked up at him and gave her best attempt at an evocative smile.

"Does this mean you want to play with me?" she inquired softly, savoring the innuendo. A hint of shock flashed across Sherlock's face as he grasped her intent. He tried his best to conceal the effect her suggestive remark had elicited, but her nearness damned him and an unquestionably male reaction was occurring despite his concentrated resolve. Sherlock realized that if he didn't do something to correct this condition immediately, there would be no denying the extremely visible proof of his desire for her.

"Violet, can you show us where you found the ponytail," he asked, clearing his throat and praying silently that his voice was not as strained as it sounded to him. He buried his hands in his pants pockets in a desperate tactic to conceal the effect she had provoked.

"Of course, but it will have to wait until later – it's homework time in the library until dinner," Violet explained and backed away, tossing a quick glance downward to confirm her suspicion. A knowing smile spread across her face as Sherlock walked awkwardly to the window. She decided to be gentle and changed the subject. "Speaking of dinner - I hope you guys brought your dress-up clothes! Dinner here is quite the experience."

"We did indeed. I hope my uniform still fits – the food in London is a bit better than in Afghanistan," John said as he hung up his jacket and smoothed out the sleeves. She reached out to touch the service ribbons.

"Mmmm! I do love a man in uniform," teased Violet with a wink. "Better make sure you lock your door tonight!" She lightly touched his shoulder and he blushed. Sherlock effectively fought the desire to step between them and/or punch John in the face; he settled for a barely perceptible huff.

"Right – so the plan. Dinner begins at 5:15 and promptly at 6:00 we retire to the ballroom for the little master's concert," she explained. "I'll have to play something as well but at 8:30, it's lights out at Castle Rucastle. We can take a look in the library after everyone goes to bed."

"I can't wait to hear you play, Violet," said John. "Maybe you and Sherlock can do something together?"

"Could've had a trio if you'd brought your harp, John," she chided with as straight a face as she could manage.

"Right, Sherlock – about that," demanded John. "You looked at me and the first instrument that came to your mind – the very first one - was the HARP?" Sherlock frowned and Violet dissolved into a fit of laughter.

"John, insecurities regarding your perceived sexuality are not my concern at this moment," he said. "Making myself presentable for dinner is, however."

"I'll come get you in about an hour," said Violet when she stopped giggling. "It's easy to get lost in this place. I've not even been in half the rooms."

"Where is your room in relation to ours, Violet?"

"I'm directly above," she said and pointed towards the ceiling. "So if you hear footsteps in the middle of the night, it's not Jacob Marley or anything, I just don't sleep well here."

"This place is definitely high on the creep factor," said John opening his case and taking out his toothbrush. "And now, having seen Psycho, I'm locking myself in the bathroom and having a shower."

Sherlock and Violet left John's room, closing the door behind them, and paused in the hallway.

"What did Rucastle say when you announced that two male friends would be coming to stay?" asked Sherlock out of the blue.

"Quiet at first," she recalled. "Then he said it would be fine. He's not big into conversation unless there's something wrong with the way the furniture is arranged."

"The furniture?"

"If there's a chair or something out of place, he flips," Violet explained. "He's either really serious about feng shui or he's a complete nutjob."

"I will be watching tonight – see if you can provoke him," he said. "I'm not leaving you alone here until I have this figured out."

"Sherlock! You do care about me!" she exclaimed with a smile, putting a hand to her heart to feign shock.

"Of course I care," he pronounced softly and opened the door to his bedroom. Turning to face her he continued, "_Something in me understands_…"

And with that single quote, he successfully stopped her heart. Unaware of what he had just done to her, Sherlock gently closed the door and as he did, she caught a glimpse of his tuxedo hanging on the closet door. She momentarily pictured Sherlock in evening clothes – pale skin in sharp contrast to the black of a tuxedo – and the image made her gasp. Shaking her head, she salvaged her composure and reprimanded herself for acting like a love-struck adolescent. "This is going to be a looooonng night," she said aloud and continued on to get ready for what was sure to be an interesting dinner.

* * *

**The poem quoted in this chapter is ****_somewhere i have never travelled…_ by e.e. cummings**


End file.
